Page 135 of Heartless Sinner

A black tux now fit his body like a glove.

An expensive, looks too damn good glove.

Him being dressed meant the bastard had waited until after changing before releasing me. For that, I knotted my fist and punched him straight in the balls.

Consequences be damned.

I smirked when he clutched his crotch and fell to his knees, his forehead nearly meeting the carpet.

All is fair in kidnapping.

I pushed myself to my feet and ripped the tape from my mouth. It pulled painfully at my lips, leaving behind a sticky residue.

Brooks was still rocking on the floor.

I took advantage of his temporary suffering to look around.

A massive four-poster bed dominated the room. Curtains framed the windows, and everything looked expensive, historic, and very much like somewhere my kidnapped-ass wasn’t supposed to be.

“I can’t be here,” I said.

This wasn’t regular trouble.

This was a life in prison trouble.

Still clutching his balls, Brooks managed to press a finger to his lips. “Keep your voice down.”

“Oh, fuck you.” I headed for the door.

He kicked his leg out. I tripped over it and pitched forward, catching myself on one of the carved posts of the bed before my face introduced itself to the floor.

I whipped around. “Seriously?”

“Like I said, keep your voice down.” He dragged himself upright and straightened his tux jacket. “You’re not allowed here.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” I dropped onto the edge of the bed.

“If they find you, they’ll arrest you for trespassing.”

“You were the one who smuggled me in here!”

The last time I’d stepped foot into the White House was the night he had me spread eagle on the Resolute Desk.

“You think I’d tell them that?” Brooks asked. “You know my word is superior to yours, Princess.”

“Whatever.” I hated that he was right. “My face is superior to yours.” I lifted my chin. “I win.”

“It seems my maturity is also superior for that childish comeback.” He straightened one tux cuff, looking too smug for a man whose balls I’d just rearranged. “You no longer find me handsome?”

“Nope. Never did.”

“What do you consider me then?”

“An asshole.” I raised one finger. “Rude.” Another. “Arrogant.” Another. “Psychotic.” Another. “And a guy who seriously needs to find a new hairstyle that doesn’t resemble something an Abercrombie model would’ve sported in 2012.”

He made a show of running his hand through his hair. “You sure loved to tug on said hair when I was eating your pussy.” His fingers dropped to his mouth, slowly dragging across his lower lip. “And I have to say, I’ve tasted better.”

I snorted. “The fact that you’re going through all this to get another taste says otherwise, Mr. Wannabe President.”